The Great Game
by InterdimensionalHitchhiker84
Summary: Charlus and Dorea Potter had two sons. What happened to the second? Is he fit to raise his nephew? Dumbledore sure didn't think so, but that won't stop him from going out and finding his family. James Moriarty/Richard Brook is Richard Potter.
1. Suddenly There Came a Tapping

_So, I got a prompt for this from Cpn. J. Harkness. Here's the first chapter._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-not me. Harry Potter is the exclusive property of J K Rowling-again, not me. I do not claim ownership of things that aren't mine. I just borrow them._

_Warnings: The main character of this story is a criminal. There will be violence and criminal activities. He's also not the most patient of people or best of parents. Later chapters may feature corporeal punishment as well as some less than savory parenting techniques._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 1—Suddenly There Came a Tapping**

A strange tapping came from the window of a dark little flat. The man on the couch jerked up quickly before slowly laying back down. "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door." He recited the phrase in a sing-song voice—a voice that would have almost anyone petrified with fear at the very sound. The tapping came again and the man swung his bare feet down to rest on the floor. Standing, he walked to the window. Gently, he pried it open. "But you're no raven, are you?" A dark brown owl hopped through the open window and shook some of the water from its feathers. The man ignored the howling of the wind and the downpour of rain that was slowly seeping onto the sill. Bending down, his face was brought into a ray of light from a streetlamp outside.

He was a young man, not really even an adult yet—only seventeen or eighteen. He had dark hair and eyes of an indistinguishable dark color. His mouth could be seen to be quirked up in a frightening half-smile as he untied the string that held a letter to the bird's left leg. As soon as the owl's burden was taken from it, it leapt into flight and soared back out into the storm. No longer smiling, the man lit a small oil lamp and placed it on a table. He used a kitchen knife to slice open the envelope and eased a folded sheet of parchment from within. It read:

_Richard Cygnus Potter,_

_We regret to inform you of the deaths of your elder brother, James Potter, and his wife, Lily Potter (nee Evans). They both passed away as of the 31__st__of October, 1981. Their deaths are listed amongst many who died that we might live in a world free from the terror wrought by the Dark Lord. They are survived by a son, Harry James Potter, who has been placed in a suitable home._

_With deepest sympathies,_

_Helen J. Babcock_

_Ministry of Magic, Wizengamot Administration Services_

The man finished reading and plunged the knife into the table, stabbing through the parchment. Without making another sound, he spun up out of the chair and deposited himself back onto the couch. He scowled up at the ceiling for several long minutes, thinking, before a grin broke across his face. Laughter slipped through his teeth and he threw his head back, letting the sounds of mirth fill the dim rooms.

o

Dawn was spreading across the horizon and pale sunbeams were making their way through the window now. In the pale light, it could be seen that the window was one of four. Several bookcases stood against the walls, an odd selection of books gracing the shelves. A kitchen area filled one part of the floor space. A small dining table sat off to the side and a desk sat up against the wall behind a couch and a single armchair. A door led to a bedroom. The walls were bare, papered in a faded cream pattern.

The young man still laid on the couch, hands folded on his chest. His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. He was thinking—planning.

o

The young man—who we now know to be Richard Potter—paced the floor, arms folded in front of his chest with one hand brought up to his chin. "And you're sure?" he asked.

A second man, who was slightly older with light brown curly hair, nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then go. Do not disappoint me."

The second man moved rapidly to the front door, opened it, and left. The remaining person resumed his pacing and began to speak out loud, under his breath. "The time is at hand. They won't laugh anymore. Nevermore, nevermore." He smiled again. "No, they won't laugh anymore. This will show them. Show them all how stupid they were. How stupid they are. That was my right. My right as much as his. And now he's gone, but I'm still here. I'm still here and I'll take what's mine!"

ooo

A silent figure approached a silent house under the cover of darkness. The street lamps didn't reach nearly far enough into the shadows to draw attention to the man. He walked calmly up the path and towards the door. A bronze number four hung under the knocker. The man smirked at the uniformity of it all. He turned to his left and stepped around the neatly planted flowers and shrubs. He circled the house, ducked through the garden gate, and crept towards the kitchen door. He pulled a set of tools from his pocket and neatly went to work picking the lock.

He had hardly started when the lock clicked and his smirk of amusement changed to a frown of disappointment at the lack of a challenge. He returned the tools to his pocket and eased the door open, revealing a home that simply gleamed with unnatural cleanliness. The man stepped into the house, pleased at the muddy footprints he left in his wake as he moved. He happily pulled an apple from the fruit drawer of the refrigerator and took a large bite from it, leaving it on the sparkling counter before continuing his mission. He stepped softly into the hallway and listened to the sounds of the house around him. He picked out the snores of an overly large man, the even breaths of a normal adult, and the restless tossing of a toddler from above. Listening more carefully, he caught on to what he was waiting for—the sounds of an uncomfortable second toddler. And this one was downstairs.

He took two measured strides towards the cupboard under the steps and tested the knob of the door. His eyebrows rose when he found it locked, but he made short work of that. He tapped six times in the door before he pulled it open. "And suddenly there came a tapping," he chimed. He openly smiled then, as he saw what he'd come for. A small, worn-down crib was squeezed into the space, and in that crib rested the small form of a child, no older than two. A shock of black hair grew from the small head and fell into his eyes.

Leaning over the edge of the crib, the man touched the small boy as if to pick him up. The child woke immediately, but the man swiftly brought his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. "Now Harry," he said softly. "It's time for a story. No crying, now." He reached down and grabbed the shocked boy in his arms and rearranged the child onto his hip. He looked around, disgusted at the other items in the cupboard, all of them trash. He only picked up the blanket from the crib and wrapped it securely around the boy he was holding before beginning the promised story.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a Lord and a Lady and they lived in a beautiful manor with their two sons. They loved both of their sons very much, until one day, the elder son started to do magic. He made objects fly around the room and created colorful sparks from nothing. The younger son tried to imitate his brother, but didn't know how, so he tried to excel as best as he could. He learned to read and write and to add and subtract. He learned so much that he was twice as smart as his brother, but he still could not do magic. The Lord and the Lady saw their son's struggles—saw that he could not make things move or create colorful sparks—and they thought that he wasn't nearly as special as the older son, who could. So, one day, when the younger son was just seven years old, they took him into the town and left him at an orphanage.

"The older son didn't miss his younger brother at all. He was showered in attention and eventually, he went away to a special school where he learned all about magic and how to use it. The younger son cried and cried. He missed his family more than anything and he didn't understand why he couldn't do the things his brother had done. The other children in the orphanage laughed at him when he cried or tried to do magic and were mean to him. He was smarter than they were, and they made fun of him because they were jealous and scared. But the Lord and the Lady forgot all about their younger son and did not come back to get him.

"Eventually, the older son grew up to be a powerful wizard. He married a lady with red hair and they had a son of their own. The younger son was still trying to prove himself. He was still learning as much as he could and he become the smartest man in the world.

"But there was a war going on and all of the wizards were fighting against each other. The Lord and the Lady died and soon, the older son and his wife did as well, leaving behind their son. This little boy was abandoned just like the younger son was before. When the younger son heard about this, he was angry, because he knew how it felt to be left alone. He searched and searched, and eventually, he found out where the boy had been left. The younger son went to the house, snuck in through the back door, and rescued the boy."

The man smiled down at the big green eyes that were looking up at him. "And now, the younger son is going to take his nephew and raise him as his own son." The man hugged the little boy and started out towards the back door. Silently, he exited the house, crept through the gardens, and walked back down the street the way he came. At the end of the street, he climbed into the waiting car and it pulled away, taking the man and the child back to a little flat in the heart of London.

"I'm James Moriarty now," the man said in the back of the car. "I took his name and I took his son. I'm taking what's mine. From now on, Little Harry, I'm your father, and your name is Samuel Brook." The little boy said nothing, staring up at his rescuer in wonder and awe. He hadn't been told a story in almost a year.

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_I hope you liked the first chapter. I should have another one in a few weeks. Let me know what you thought in a review!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


	2. Consulting Criminal

_Alright, dear readers. Here you go. I really am very sorry for the long wait. I have many excuses, though. Exams, homework, and the difficulty of writing Moriarty teamed up in an effort to defeat me. I survived though-battled through. This chapter did not go where I thought it would and I actually had to change the title, but it is finally here. _

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Any of it. Words do not belong to me. Neither do Harry Potter or Sherlock, but I think that's a bit of a side issue, to be honest._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 2—Consulting Criminal**

The man, newly named Moriarty, sat in the armchair in his flat, the small child he'd just "rescued" sitting on his knee, held out at arm's length. He studied the child, who looked half asleep but still seemed to be trying to study him back. Moriarty noted that the eyebrows were curved the same way as his, the hair was the same color, but messier, and the child had horrendous eyesight, probably inherited from its worthless father. He snorted at the way the toddler was squinting and decided to get the kid glasses as soon as possible. In a few years, he could start wearing contacts, and in his teens, he could get laser surgery.

Moriarty shifted the weight of the green-eyed child and stood up, pulling the bundle close to his chest. He quickly wrinkled his nose at the smell and took several breaths before moving. He had realized, of course, that an abused and abandoned child would be less developed, and his _dear brother _couldn't possibly be capable of passing on intelligence he didn't have (The child's mother had been its only hope so far, and that was hardly very solid. After all, she couldn't be too intelligent if she'd married James) but he hadn't really been prepared for a lack of potty-training. His nose wrinkled again at the word. The child would need to be trained as soon as possible and his other short-comings would need to be dealt with quickly as well.

Regathering his limited patience, the young man moved into the kitchen and plopped the child down on the counter by the sink. He retrieved some of the things he'd purchased earlier from the sacks by the door and returned in time to see the boy about to topple off of the ledge. Dropping the items, he let his instincts take over and he caught the child just in time, backhanding him across the face as punishment. The toddler immediately began to cry and reached up with a little hand to touch his hurt cheek. Moriarty raised the boy up to eye-level with one arm and glared directly into the child's face. "Samuel," he snapped, "You are _not_ to go wandering around." He pulled the little hand away from the cheek and pressed down on the area with his thumb. There was no additional reaction to indicate undue pain. No damage; just shock.

He sat Samuel back down on the edge of the counter and placed his hands on either side of the kid as he leaned in. "Had you fallen, you would have received much greater injury and felt much greater pain. There will be consequences for endangering yourself or others. Do you understand, Samuel?" There was nothing to indicate the young person had understood. Sighing exasperatedly, he took the small, red, and wet face in his hands. "You are _not_ an idiot and you will answer me when I speak to you. _Do. You. Understand?_" The boy nodded slightly, obviously scared.

A smile played at the edge of his mouth as he stood up straight again. Quickly, he filled a large tub with warm water and began to undress his nephew.

The sobs died away quickly enough after he'd been deposited in the soothing warm water and Moriarty, as disgusted as he was with the mediocrity of the task, made short work of cleaning his nephew. The child was soon dried off, stuffed into brand new pajamas, and laid down in a crib, which was located in the second bedroom. Moriarty sat down in a chair by the crib and spoke to the young boy, easing him to sleep.

"Once upon a time, there was a princess. She was the most beautiful maiden in all the land…"

Less than ten minutes later, when he concluded with "But she quickly pulled the knife from where it was hidden amongst her skirts and plunged it into his neck. The noble prince died choking on his own blood and the princess smiled happily. She promptly screamed for the guards, knowing that if she claimed it was magic, she would never be suspected, and hid the knife back amongst her skirts. The guards came and acted predictably and she was soon walking back down the corridors of the castle, humming to herself. A knight caught her eye and she turned to face him. 'A new victim,' she thought to herself. And in this way, the princess, but never anyone near her, lived happily ever after," the little bundle of young human was fast asleep, his fists curled around his blankets.

Moriarty stood, brushed back his dark hair with one hand, and bent down to press his lips to the slumbering toddler's forehead. "Sleep well, young Samuel," he murmured. And as quickly as he thought about it, the young man, newly made parent, changed his own clothing and climbed into his own bed.

ooo

Moriarty woke to the faint rays of early sunlight hitting his eyelids. He refused to open his eyes and squeezed them shut, scowling at the morning. After several seconds, the scowl was replaced by a grin and he chuckled under his breath. He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing, he finally opened his eyes. His plain bedroom was gently lit by the pale light of the sunrise. He scrubbed his face with his hands and made his way to the bathroom.

He showered and went through his morning routine, using an electric razor and leaving a slight stubble rather than wasting the time and effort for a close shave. Staring into the mirror, his hands on the counter, he said, "You've done it! Oh, you've done it. But of course, how could you ever not?"

He dressed hurriedly after that, throwing on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, before going into the kitchen. He carefully put away all of the things he'd bought the morning before. He quickly assembled a high-chair, then slowly hand-washed the kiddy-cups and threw the towels and blankets into the laundry to be taken and washed later. Setting the newly dried cups in the cupboard, he left one out on the counter and turned around to face the living area. He was pleased that the child wasn't screaming, but was also highly suspicious.

Eyes narrowed at the very notion that a toddler had managed to sleep for nine hours in a strange location without making a sound, he dried his hands, hung the hand towel, and swiftly crossed the flat. He was by Samuel's crib in only a few moments.

The toddler was sitting in the corner of the cot, curled up as small as possible on top of the pillow. His emerald eyes were wide with fear and they shifted immediately from the walls to Moriarty as soon as he'd entered the room. As the young man approached, Samuel did his best to shrink even farther away, actually quaking in fear.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. Reaching down quickly, he grabbed the child under his armpits and lifted him into the air. The toddler squeaked and tried to squirm away. "Samuel," Moriarty said sharply, his hazel eyes cold. The child stopped making noise and the squirming lessened. The man's eyes narrowed even more. That had been too easy.

He pulled his nephew in close to his chest and looked down at the little face with a frown. "Samuel, I expect you to behave, but I will not hurt you. Not like they obviously did." His voice had softened and he looked at the child with concern now. "I'm your father now and I will take care of you."

Samuel had stopped squirming completely now and was sitting completely still in his uncle's arms, staring up into the face of the older man in shock. Did he sound almost…kind?

Moriarty sighed at the odd look he was receiving and picked up the blanket from the cot. He carried Samuel into the bathroom and helped the boy onto the child's toilet.

The toddler fidgeted nervously, obviously unsure of what to do, but when he finally deposited something in the toilet, he cringed away in fear. Moriarty sighed, disliking this kind of task, but resigned to it. He took the child's chin in his left hand and tilted the small face up to look at his own.

He forced himself to smile reassuringly, but he wasn't entirely sure that it came out as he intended. "Samuel, you did well. That was what you were supposed to do. I'm going to get you cleaned up now, then you'll get breakfast. Do you understand?"

The small boy met Moriarty's gaze questioningly. He wasn't being punished? He nodded slowly and his uncle picked him up. Using a wet cloth, he cleaned him up and put him in a fresh pull-up and new clothing. The toilet was cleaned and taken care of and Moriarty set Samuel on his feet on the floor.

The boy was shocked and stumbled when Moriarty stepped forward, but with great deliberation and carefully controlled and bottled up impatience, the young man held the little boy's hands and forced him to walk through the flat to the kitchen area. Every couple of steps, Samuel stumbled or fell, often letting out cries of alarm, but Moriarty tugged him back up and kept moving. The boy had to learn to walk. He had to be up to speed with other children his age. He was so underdeveloped now, that if Moriarty didn't push the boy and push him hard, he could be behind everyone else for the rest of his life. Moriarty wouldn't allow that. He wouldn't let his nephew live that way. He'd fix the damage the child had already undergone—make sure he became something, had a life better than his own.

When they reached the kitchen area, little Samuel was in tears, but they didn't last long. Moriarty snatched the child under the arms and brought him up to face-height. He smiled and praised the child. "You did so well, Samuel. So very well. You'll keep practicing and you will get better." The man's eyes flashed with the determination that shone behind them and Samuel quieted, in awe of the person holding him. Moriarty brushed away the boy's tears with the pad of his thumb and set him down on the counter.

Remembering the night before, the young boy didn't move and when Moriarty turned back from the fridge, milk in hand, he gave a genuine smile.

"See, Samuel? You can learn. You've done so already." He poured the milk into the cup he'd left out, heated it a bit in the microwave, and put the cup in Samuel's hands. When the child presented a look of confusion, he helped guide the milk up to his mouth. Samuel caught on rather quickly, and drank some of the liquid, but tried to squirm away when faced with the task of consuming more. "Malnourished?" he mused out loud. That would explain his reluctance to eat. It would be uncomfortable to have a full stomach if he weren't used to it.

With a sigh, he relented, taking back the cup. He stood and stared at the child until he began to squirm again, thinking.

Maybe if it tasted good enough, he'd eat or drink it anyways. Children often stuffed themselves past bursting with sweets, didn't they? He turned and pulled some newly bought applesauce from the cupboard and poured it into a small bowl. He plopped a large dob of strawberry jam into it and mixed it together.

Using a small spoon, Moriarty scooped up some of the mixture and brought it to Samuel's face. His dark hazel eyes met the bright green ones and he peered into the child's face, making sure he was receiving full attention. "Open your mouth." He pushed the spoon against the small lips and Samuel's mouth dutifully opened. "Now close." It took a bit longer and a raised eyebrow, but the toddler finally closed his mouth around the spoon and Moriarty slid it out, leaving its contents on the small tongue. Samuel swished it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing, never breaking eye contact.

After that, Samuel devoured the rest of the bowl or food. That was followed by banana slices and a piece of ham. Just as Moriarty was wondering how much such a small stomach was capable of holding and rethinking his earlier deduction about probable malnourishment, he raised the cup of milk to Samuel's mouth again. Instead of taking it as he had the food, Samuel tasted the liquid, then promptly tried to push the cup away. The child let out a bit of noise as he fought the cup and spat the milk on the ground.

Moriarty was frustrated. Children—especially young children—were supposed to love milk. They needed it. He set the cup aside again and grabbed another cup from the cupboard. He splashed some apple juice into it and screwed the cap on. Samuel watched him warily as he approached again. He allowed the cup to be pressed to his lips though, and as liquid poured into his mouth, his wariness faded away in excitement. He took the cup in his own hands and gulped down the sweet juice.

Now Moriarty was just shocked. What was wrong with the milk?

Unscrewing the lid of the other cup, he took a swig of the stuff himself. It tasted fine. It was awful warm, but the taste was the same. He downed the rest of it with a grimace and set it aside.

"Still hungry?" Moriarty asked. The small boy lowered the cup to look at him. Timidly, he nodded. That nod was the first real sign that the boy understood actual words. Asking if he was still hungry wasn't the same as asking if he understood. Any child would nod at the second. So with a grin, Moriarty turned to the fridge and pulled out some eggs.

ooo

Moriarty spent the majority of the day with his nephew. He read him stories, told him better ones, walked him around the flat, cooked for him, and stared intently into the young eyes for a full ten minutes. After lunch, he put the boy down for a nap so he could take care of some business with some of his contacts and clients.

"But I need this, Sir. Really, there's nothing I need more. She took my family from me!"

"You should never have given her access then," Moriarty replied coldly. The strange man in the room sobbed. "I will take care of you problem. For a price."

"Anything!"

"Ah, you should be careful what you agree to, Mr. Williams." Moriarty leaned back in his chair, quite relaxed. "At some time in the future, I will require a task of you. You will complete whatever task I assign you, or the consequences will be severe. And they will be paid for by your beautiful daughter." The stranger's eyes widened in shock. "My terms are non-negotiable. Go." The man scurried to the door and it slammed shut behind him.

Moriarty laughed.

He sat at his desk and powered up his computer. He quickly hacked into some secure databases and forged some documents for the poor man.

Later, a small woman with messy long blonde hair frantically knocked on his door. When he opened it, he smiled charmingly. "Ah, come in, my dear. I have a task for you." He sat her down in a chair and faced her. "Don't worry about your boyfriend, love. He'll be dead by morning. What I ask in return is of great importance. A Mr. Sullery will be near your usual corner tonight. Pick him up, endure his attentions, and plant these papers in his briefcase." She shakily took the proffered papers. "There you are, dear," he said, helping her up. "On your way, now."

Just as the door shut, Samuel cried out. The cry quickly died down to sniffles, however, and Moriarty let him be for a moment, quickly dialing the number for his greatest asset. "The target we discussed. Cause him pain. Come by tomorrow for your payment."

He hung up the phone and dialed a new number. "Yes, hello," he said, making an effort to sound young and cheerful. "I'm Richard. Richard Brook. I saw the auditions notice. So sorry that the old star retired, but I'd be honored to take his place. Story time is my favorite. My cousin's children all watched it."

At the conclusion of that call, he made a note on his calendar for his audition and finally went to check on Samuel. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the child, too absorbed in his thoughts to make any effort to comfort him, and set him on the ground. He walked Samuel to the bathroom, where he stripped the toddler of his bottoms and sat him on the child's toilet.

"You sit here when you need to use the bathroom, Samuel. Remember that." He got the still sniffling child cleaned up, frowned at the fuss he was making, and walked him out to the main living area. Taking a seat on the couch, he pulled Samuel up onto his lap and handed him a cup of water.

He sat thinking for several minutes before putting all other thoughts aside and finally forcing himself to concentrate on Samuel. "What was your nightmare about?"

Samuel looked at him in a puzzled sort of way. "Speak to me, Samuel. Say something!" He fought the urge to shake the boy, setting him aside, going to his room, and screaming and throwing things instead. When he returned, he pulled a now very frightened boy back onto his lap and spent an hour trying to coax him into talking. It didn't work.

He set Samuel on the ground to play with some blocks he set out and went to the kitchen. He sliced some fruits and vegetables and pieces of leftover chicken for Samuel, fixed a quick meal for himself, and sat the child down to eat. Samuel ate it all, Moriarty gave him a quick bath, then he was put back down in his crib. Samuel didn't scream, but as soon as Moriarty shut the door and walked back to his own room, the child began to cry. He was quiet though, and Moriarty didn't hear him as he changed into more appropriate clothes, gathered his materials, left the flat, and locked the door behind him.

* * *

_Yes, Moriarty did not feed Samuel when they first got to the flat. As I said, horrible parent. And yes, he did leave Samuel home alone. Again-horrible parent. This will have consequences. Samuel is not speaking yet and is still terrified to do just about anything, but he is eating. Eating quite a lot, which is good. Moriarty already has the startings of a criminal web, and he's working towards his acting career. His teaching career will come later._

_Reviews would motivate me to write faster this time. :) If you have questions, ask!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


	3. The Struggles of Unclehood

_Yes, dear readers, I know that it has been quite a while. I apologize. I wish I could have updated sooner for you all. However, this story is written with a mood unlike any of my other work and therefore requires a specific and often unattainable state of mind for me to write. Yesterday, I was lucky enough to obtain this elusive mood and therefore spent over two hours plunking this out for you. _

_Disclaimer: If you know I don't own it, then please don't think that I'm saying I do._

_Warnings: Trigger warnings for self-harm, extreme violence, and character death. This gets messy. Quite a lot of blood._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 3—The Struggles of Unclehood**

When Moriarty returned to his flat, key in hand, it was to deathly silence. He turned the knob and violently brushed back a piece of errant hair. Opening the door, he felt the uncomfortable tingling left over from a strong spell. He cursed under his breath and retrieved his gun from a secret door in his desk. It was less than a minute before he was easing open the door to the second bedroom, eyes wide with maniac rage.

The empty room filled his sight and he let out a string of curses that no sane person would ever repeat in any similar volume. Moriarty ripped at his hair, spun in circles, screamed, and shot the wall. He threw dishes and stomped on them until finally, he pulled a ragged shard of glass across his arm. Blood dripped onto the floor, falling so quickly the splashes never had a chance to fade before the next one formed inside it.

He dug the glass roughly into his skin several more times until low blood pressure and the ripping pain worked together to ground him and force him to calm. The man sank into a chair and breathed deeply, glaring at the walls. His gaze shifted to the mess of blood and broken objects on the kitchen floor and his nostrils flared in anger.

Someone had taken his nephew from him. Someone with magic. Words could not express his anger.

Moriarty closed his eyes and focused on the pounding of blood in his head. He let several tremors wash over him then leaned back and cracked his neck to relieve the pressure. Unfortunately for whomever had broken into his home, he was focused now, and even at the tender age of eighteen, anyone who had ever crossed the young man knew that when he was focused, all hope was lost for any who opposed him.

He rifled through the bathroom cupboards looking for quick supplies, then rinsed out the cuts before wrapping them tightly with a long strip of fabric. Without further ado, Moriarty strode back to the second bedroom and went all the way inside this time, glancing around for clues. The minor details soon proved to be of no importance as he spotted a formal page of parchment resting amongst the tousled blankets in the crib.

He picked it up with steady hands and read the letter in what seemed to be a single glance.

_Dear Richard Potter,_

_You have my deepest sympathies, young man, for all the tragedies you have endured in your short life. Life away from your parents can not have been easy, my boy, but know that it was for your own protection. Dark times were rising in our world and it was better for you to be raised away from all that._

_Charlus and Dorea's deaths must have hit you hard as well, and when your own brother died, I can imagine your pain. It is only natural that you would reach out to grasp the only family you had left in the form of your nephew, young Harry._

_Richard, please forgive me for taking this from you and allow me to explain. Harry is still being hunted by those who killed your brother, and he is not safe with you. Surely you can understand that I only want what is best for him, and I'm sure you share a desire for his safety. Harry is in good hands with his aunt and uncle on his mother's side. Because of Lily's actions directly prior to her parting from this world, I was able to place wards that protect him whilst residing in that home. I would never be able to so the same in your home, Richard, and without magic, you would simply be unable to keep him safe._

_The best way you can protect your nephew is to let him stay where he was. When he is old enough, and it is once more safe for him to venture into the larger world, I will provide him with your name._

_Look upon this as a blessing, my boy. You are still barely of age. You should not be looking for responsibilities of a parent so quickly. Take advantage of your youth and reach out towards all life has to offer. Do not let thoughts of your family tie you down to misery._

_You are not abandoning Harry by letting him be-you are saving him. Saving him from the pain of being kidnapped, tortured, and killed by ruthless dark wizards just for his identity and the method of his parents' demise. This is what is best. Please, move on with your life and worry not for his well being._

_With the sincerest of sympathies and condolences,_

_Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore_

_Order of Merlin First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, ect..._

A terrifying absence of emotions graced the young face as he looked straight at the wall ahead of him and slowly tightened his hands into fists, muscles straining obscenely as the parchment crumpled. Fire erupted in his eyes and slowly, the corners of his mouth began to rise. Seconds ticked by and Moriarty did not blink. He simply stared ahead as the small smile was transformed into an indescribably unnerving grin, brimming with immeasurable insanity.

The young man took one step forward, then another, eventually breaking into a run. With skips and leaps and the occasional mid-air twirl, he moved through the empty streets of two am London.

* * *

It was nearly three when a young man in a slightly crumpled suit stepped breathlessly into the back ally behind a little-known and in fact, little-seen, pub in London. He leaned up against the brick wall opposite the old door and shrugged in a way that pushed the holstered gun up against his side in a reassuring way. His hark hazel irises were shining in his eyes, brows lowered in an evaluating position. His hair was messy and hung, longer than he normally kept it, into his face. It didn't quite fall to his eyes, but it clung in clumps to his forehead where sweat had dripped down from the hairline. His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets, not betraying the existence of a tight bloody bandage around the right arm.

Breathing fast and deep in a way that made each breath visible with a corresponding rise of the small chest, he waited, looking very much like a relaxed predator.

Minutes later, Moriarty had not moved an inch. When a loud crack was heard and a man slightly taller than him appeared on the other end of the small ally, he only blinked.

In four steps, the scruffy man with dirty blonde hair and a wary expression pulled a stick from what appeared to be a mix between an old graduation robe and a dressing gown that had seen better days and tapped a brick in the wall next to Moriarty. Without a sound, Moriarty easily pushed off from the wall and stood, hands still in his pockets, to allow the wall to open into an archway for them.

Later, seated in a shabby office behind a dingy shop, the man from before was gone and Moriarty faced a woman. Her hair was braided loosely and pulled over her shoulder and her dark blue eyes evaluated him. She nodded. "Your offer is acceptable. I can have the wards and defenses erected in three days."

"Two." His eyes flashed dangerously.

Their eyes locked for a long moment before she nodded again. "For an additional two hundred galleons."

His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward and examined her face. Slowly, he echoed her nod and leaned back before standing up. She stood as well and his previous dangerous professionalism faded away as he rolled his eyes theatrically. She was taller and wider than him. "When the job is done, you will receive your payment."

"One half now."

"I don't think so, love. All you'll get now is a credit card. And you wouldn't want your other customers knowing about your business outside of the traditional magical world, now would we?"

She scowled deeply, her eyes narrowing and lips compressing.

Moriarty buttoned his suit jacket and turned his back, walking from the shop with a grin once again spread across his face.

* * *

At five forty six that morning, a Mr. James Moriarty stepped out of a car into the predawn light of the silent street. He approached the house that he had already been to once and again felt the tingle of the wards as they didn't know what to do with a non-magical threat. He chuckled as he knocked obnoxiously loud and waited.

Muffled noises came from inside the house and he smiled as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He realized that he was unprepared and revelled in the idea of improvising this encounter. Soon, a horse-faced woman with blonde hair opened the door, holding her floral dressing gown tightly around her waist.

"Hello, my name is Richard Potter," Moriarty said much too cheerfully. "I happily took the child you obviously don't want off your hands a bit ago, but some manipulative old man seems to have taken him back and returned him to you. Now, I just can't fathom why, but frankly, I don't care much. I'd just like my nephew back, please."

Moriarty then pushed past the woman, ignoring her as she gaped like a fish. He'd just opened the cupboard under the stairs when he heard a loud "Vernon!" behind him. The dark-haired toddler in the small space was soundly asleep, not moving. Obviously a charm. Moriarty's smile turned to a scowl for a few moments as he picked up the sleeping child, tsking at the uncleanliness of the space and thinking about needing to get the child vaccinations, and turned around to face the family.

Jostling Samuel so he was nestled into the crook of his right arm, Moriarty fixed his grin firmly back in place, his eyes wide again with anticipation of what was to come.

A lumbering oaf came down the stairs and joined his wife in the front hall. Moriarty held out his left hand before pretending to realize the mistake and switch arms, shifting Samuel to rest against his left shoulder instead.

"Hello! You must be Vernon Dursley. Richard Potter. Just here to take my nephew back. Don't worry, I'm taking measures to ensure this doesn't happen again. So sorry for waking you up this early-"

"You're one of them," the whale of a man grumbled, ignoring the offered hand.

"One of-? Oh, them! Goodness, no! Not at all. Not an ounce of magic in me. Nope. Parents abandoned me because of it. Grew up in an orphanage and learned to be a proper human being while my older brother went to that ridiculous magic school."

Dursley's eyes narrowed as if confused.

"Got him killed, that did. Anyways, sorry once again. Didn't mean to wake you, but I was a bit anxious about him, getting kidnapped in the night by some disappearing madman and all."

"But how did you get him without us noticing if it wasn't by..."

"Oh, that was nothing," Moriarty said cheerfully, grinning at the woman. The toddler upstairs screamed and Petunia ran up the steps to see to him. Moriarty locked eyes with Vernon silently until the woman and her son got back. "I'm a criminal, you see. Top of the business. Seemed a bit rude to not let you see me this time though, what with how this is going to end and all. Got any apple juice?"

"What?" Mr. Dursley forced out.

"Oh, never mind, I'll get it myself." Moriarty looked down at Samuel rubbing his closed eyes with a fist and walked purposefully into the kitchen, Petunia with her screaming pig of a son behind him. It took only another moment of the boy's screaming to fully wake Samuel and Moriarty met his green-eyed gaze solidly. "Samuel, stay here," he said firmly and quietly, placing the boy on the counter.

In just the blink of an eye, a large kitchen knife, handle covered with a small towel, swung out and sliced Mrs. Dursley's throat. The son was next to die, followed by Mr. Dursley. They never saw it coming or had time to make any noise.

Wiping the blade on Mrs. Dursley's floral dressing down as he came back into the kitchen, Moriarty sent an honest smile at the sleepy two-year-old sitting on the counter. He hunted for a sippy cup and apple juice in the kitchen and gave his son a drink.

Still holding the cup, he gathered Samuel into his arms again and walked out of the house into the early-morning air. "It's okay, my son. That mean old man took you away from me once, but it won't happen again. I promise. You're safe now, Samuel. It's alright, because you're with me."

He securely strapped Samuel into a child's car seat with a blanket and stuffed dog and got into the driver's seat. When they reached London, Samuel was fast asleep once more.

* * *

Samuel didn't leave Moriarty's sight for the next few days, meaning all face-to-face business negotiations were put on hold. The consulting criminal (a term he'd made up shortly before finding out about Samuel) did his business on the phone while staring intently into his son's eyes. The night after their return to the flat, a wizard apparated into the building. Moriarty shot him without looking up from his paperwork and the man screamed before hurriedly disapparating away.

Samuel's eyes had gone very wide at this occurrence and Moriarty's narrowed in concentration when he noticed.

The morning after, Samuel actively hugged Moriarty when the man picked him up. "Dadda," the toddler said softly, face pressed into the fabric of the shirt covering his dad's chest. Moriarty, of course, wasn't satisfied with that. He should have been able to say that a year ago. The next two hours were spent trying to get a confused toddler to speak in complete sentences.

This session ended in Moriarty throwing things again.

That evening, he handed over a Gringotts' bank slip to the shady but talented witch who had completed the wards. Any magical person not on the list of people programmed into the wards would likely be killed when passing through them. Anybody not magical and not programmed in would receive a shock strong enough to force a verbal reaction.

Needless to say, the young criminal was pleased, but still doubtful. He was eagerly awaiting proof of effectiveness before he relaxed his watchful eye on Samuel.

* * *

One week and one dead witch later, Moriarty resumed business. He gave a satisfied smirk at every squeal when people came to see him.

Unfortunately, not everything was fun at the expense of others' pain. Samuel happily ate fruits and vegetables, eggs, ham, chicken, beef, or anything else placed in front of him, but he turned up his nose at yogurt and even pudding. He whined and squirmed and fought when confronted with milk. It was incomprehensible. The boy was gaining weight and size, but he needed calcium—badly. And as much as he hated to admit it, the issue might call for a doctor.

There was also the vaccines issue to think about and the child still wouldn't speak properly. It all bothered the young man more than he'd care to admit.

You couldn't just bring a child into a doctor for an issue like this without background information though. He had no records and no plausible explanation for why Samuel was in his care now, but hadn't been before. He didn't even know how long the problems had existed. And was there even a way to check if someone had already obtained their shots? What would happen if a child received an extra set?

As much as he hated it, it was time to call in some favors. Preferably before he ripped his hair out from frustration and worry.

* * *

_Alright. That's a wrap on chapter three. Honestly, I have no idea when the next one will be up. Sorry about that. However, reviews are highly motivational and I would absolutely love to hear what you al think. So please, drop me a message. That little box, just below, will happily take your thoughts. It'll only take a moment._

_Thank you for reading!_

_-MP_


	4. The Rescuer's Job Doesn't End

_I'm sorry it took so long, dear readers, but this story is ridiculously difficult to write and this is a bit of a filler chapter. At any rate,_

_Warnings: A bit of child abuse. Nothing graphic and pretty light, but it's Moriarty. We all knew he couldn't be a stellar parent._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 4—The Rescuer's Job Doesn't End**

Moriarty was reading a textbook, preparing for the next round of testing out of his courses, when the doorbell proclaimed the arrival of his expected visitor. He set aside the book, glanced at his sleeping son, and stood up to answer the door. Two hours later, he was equipped with a complete set of records explaining about Samuel's removal from an unsafe home and subsequent adoption by Richard Brook, uncle to the boy. There was genuine DNA evidence proving the blood relation, so it was unlikely that the story would be questioned and there were references lined up in case it was. Moriarty grabbed Samuel's hand and walked him out of the building to the street, where they hailed a cab and rode into the doctor's office.

Blood was taken for testing and Samuel was declared quite healthy looking, if a bit quiet.

When the blood tests came back, Moriarty took the child back in to get the necessary vaccines and the doctor, a frankly irritating woman, did a breath test to confirm lactose intolerance. It took quite a bit of work to get Samuel to drink what they handed him and the hours in between the tests did little for the humor of either Moriarty or is nephew. The knowledge though, was useful, and the criminal was quickly able to adjust Samuel's diet to one where he got all the essential nutrients without lactose.

It was one week before Samuel's second birthday that serious problems once more arose.

-o-

A hesitant knock on the door had Moriarty looking up quickly from the book he was reading with Samuel, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. He hoisted the kid up onto his hip and set the book aside, moving toward the door. Opening it revealed two men dressed in dark red robes. One was visibly holding a wand and the other pulled out a badge and cleared their throat. "Ah, Mister Potter..."

"Brook, isn't it?" the other one interrupted. Both of them kept glancing anxiously at Samuel, especially his forehead, and Moriarty followed their actions, amused.

"Is it?" the first one whispered.

"Ah ha, yes, Mister Brook, we're from the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic," the second one said.

"Are you now?"

"Yes," the first one said slowly. "Er, we're here about two things, really. First of all, you've got some illegal wards up around your premises. Secondly, the boy you're holding is Harry Potter, who is not supposed to be in your custody."

"We've come to take down the wards and bring the boy back to the ministry where he'll be assigned a more appropriate home," the second one interjected, fidgeting under Moriaty's stare.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. "I'm afraid not." He closed the door in their faces and turned towards Samuel.

"They want to take me away?"

"Yes, Samuel, they do, but Daddy won't let them."

Samuel nodded and Moriarty smiled and returned to the book he had set aside.

Three days later, taking advantage of the aurors' lack of patience, they had moved to a new flat and the wardstones were set into place once more.

-o-

Samuel learned quickly once he got over the initial problems caused by the traumatic events which had left him orphaned, the abuse that had occurred in his short cohabitation with the Dursleys, and the significant change in surroundings and lifestyle. Moriarty was not a patient man and frequently took out his anger on objects and the flat, throwing things and yelling, which frightened the toddler, but he got used to it enough that it soon wasn't something that completely shut the poor boy down.

By the time his third birthday rolled around, Samuel was advanced for his age rather than behind, and although he was still quiet, normally only speaking when spoken to, he was curious, observant, and quick to follow instructions. Disobedience earned him pain and he knew it, so doing what his father said wasn't even a question, and since his father was frequently engrossed in business, he learned how to entertain himself through learning. By the time he was four, he could read easily.

By the time he was five, he had learned about his father's two names and two different jobs, math professor and actor. When he was six, he learned of the third, criminal.

He was seven when he learned how to pick a lock and eight when he started to question what was right and wrong and wonder about religion.

-o-

"Dad, don't you ever feel _bad_ about killing people?" Moriarty turned and slapped his son.

"Not when Daddy's working."

Samuel had clutched at his cheek and pondered about the pain and what it might mean for a father to cause that in his child for a few hours while reading a physics book.

"I don't kill people, Samuel," Moriarty said later. Samuel looked up. "People die, but it is not I that kills them. More often than not, it is their own stupidity. Death comes to those who do not have strong enough protections and that is the way of life."

"But you're a criminal, Dad. That means you break the law. Isn't that wrong? Morally?"

The resulting discussion resulted in a trip to church the next Sunday, where Moriarty ran a constant commentary, questioning everything that was stated at its basest level. Samuel agreed that that church was utter nonsense and started to research the different religions. This research lasted months and at its end, Samuel decided that wiccan beliefs made the most sense to him. Some of what that taught aided him in his daily magic practice, so his father didn't object, but a new rule was put in place that Samuel was not allowed to comment on the morality or potential cosmic effects of anything his father did.

-o-

Samuel was not allowed to participate in criminal activities, but he was taught how to defend himself in the case that he was caught in the middle of something and he witnessed quite a few deaths and brutal injuries.

The one thing he was truly upset about was not being able to interact with other children, but after spending an hour with children his age, Samuel quickly agreed to his father's decision to keep him homeschooled.

He'd been used as bait several times and genuinely kidnapped twice, but mostly, he just sighed and passed it off as an annoyance.

When he was nine, he was left in a dark room while his father's business associates shot at each other outside. He's been there for several hours when a snake wormed its way in through ha whole in flooring.

He'd never been very near a snake before, but he'd never been frightened of them, so he watched it move, clicking his tongue in boredom.

"It'sss rude to ssstare."

He jumped back so hard that his back hit the wall, which was followed by 30 seconds of screamed threats at him from outside and a gentle, "Now, I wouldn't do any of that if I were you," from his father. Well, gentle probably wasn't the right word, but soft. And menacing.

At any rate, Samuel looked at the snake again and whispered, "What?"

It turned to look at him. "A ssspeaker?"

"I don't know what that means."

-o—

"Dad, I… may have spoken to a snake."

"What?"

"Yesterday, when you were discussing things and I got left in that cell for hours, there was a snake. And I'm fairly certain I spoke to it."

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. "We'll test it. Next week."

Samuel nodded.

That night, he set his glasses on the bedside table and stared up at the blurry ceiling. Snakes? Why snakes? Maybe it was just the one. Could it be a magic thing? Putting those thoughts aside, he waved his hand to tug on the string for the lamp, letting the room settle into darkness.

He fell asleep to the sound of his father telling off an employee through fairy tale. It was relaxing, no matter how disturbing it might seem sometimes.

-o-

A trip to a pet store was enough to convince Moriarty to buy his son a snake, a white and grey corn snake who according to Samuel, told terrible jokes, but the test came two days later when Jim was staring down a very persistently annoying client.

"Samuel," he hissed.

The boy stepped into the room.

"What we talked about."

Samuel nodded and quietly hissed "I need you to bite her so I can keep you," to the snake in his hands.

The snake gave a wordless irritated hiss in response and slithered quickly across the table to bite the client, who screamed and then fainted.

Moriarty nodded in satisfaction.

-o—

Samuel was sitting in the center of a filthy and dark abandoned warehouse, Selwyn wound around his neck and under one arm beneath his clothing. His father had asked him to wait here, so waiting he was. But he did so hate to be bored.

In his left hand, he was making flames jump up and down in patterns, and with his right, he was sketching out a design for an easy scam in a pocket notebook.

"Samuel," Moriarty snapped from a doorway.

He looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Dad?"

"You're trying my patience. Get up and let's go."

It was going to be one of those nights. He mentally prepared himself for the handful of bruises and the fountain of soul-cutting remarks that would likely come over the course of the evening, and stood up, careful not to jostle or squish his friend too much, and ran to follow the swiftly disappearing form of his father.

He tried to keep silent, but his 'ow' when he stubbed his toe getting into the car was met with a sharp slap that he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from protesting.

"Sorry," he said quickly, looking away.

Moriarty glared. "Don't know why I ever saved you."

-o—

Samuel was almost 11. His father had been getting more and more tense for weeks and Samuel hardly dared move or breathe. He wasn't allowed to leave the flat, he wasn't allowed to joke around, and he certainly wasn't allowed to get in the way or speak out of turn. Worst of all, Moriarty was _always home_. He didn't leave to do any of his three jobs at all anymore, leaving him to shout angrily at various paperwork and assignments to be graded.

It was awful. And it didn't stop.

On July 31st, there was a knock at the door and Moriarty froze, every muscle ceasing movement for several long seconds. And then the knock came again and he started to twitch. Samuel was terrified.

When Moriarty suddenly leapt out of his chair and opened the door in a swirl of movement, gun in hand, Samuel almost screamed. But all there was at the door was a thick envelope with something written on it in green.

Moriarty picked up the envelope, then slammed the door and strode into the kitchen, where he pulled a lighter from a drawer and set the letter on fire before dropping it into the sink. Then he skipped over to his son and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, bending down so he could whisper into Samuel's ear.

Samuel jumped and squeaked in shock, his eyes widening.

"Don't worry, Samuel. Daddy will keep you safe. Daddy always keeps you safe." The singsong voice was back and despite the horror of it all, it registered as comforting to his child brain and Samuel relaxed. And he nodded, melting against his father's side.

"They'll come and they'll search, try to take you away, but they'll never get you from me. They got you before, first once and then twice. But what's mine is mine, you know that it's true. And you're scared, I know, but there's no need to be, because Daddy's right here. And I love you, see?" Moriarty stroked the hair back from Samuel's face and stared right into his eyes, not blinking. "The rescuer won't abandon his little boy. The little boy will grow up under the younger son to be better than the older son could ever be. And he will have the best of guards and tutors and things. And he will not be lead astray by any manipulative old men in silly robes."

Samuel breathed rhythmically, keeping eye contact with his father no matter how much he wanted to look away because he knew it was safer that way. What Moriarty was saying didn't make any sense, but it hardly ever did when he spoke like that, so Samuel didn't pay it any attention, just focusing on the mysterious comfort of the tone and on keeping breath flowing in and out of his lungs.

* * *

_Review maybe? I love reviews. Reviews give me life. _

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


	5. The Contract's Call

_I know it's been a while and I know this is a shorter chapter than normal, but I feel like this was such a good stopping point and I couldn't resist. Anyways, _

_Warnings: extreme violence, blood, and character death. I'm a terrible person. So, so terrible. I'm sorry._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 5—The Contract's Call**

Another letter had come the next day. And then again the next. Samuel couldn't quite understand why they were coming, since they weren't even addressed to either of them, but when he found one in an odd spot, he dutifully left it somewhere his father would later find it.

Honestly, he was terrified. When Moriarty let him out of his sight, he got as far away from his father as possible and tried to stay quiet, because when he was being watched by those cold hazel eyes he normally found so comforting, he couldn't help but feel the throbbing of every bruise he had as a reminder of his parent's horrible mood. He was being punished for things that he normally would have been praised for and any sign of fear was punished just as harshly as defiance.

He couldn't win, and he could only hope that it would stop.

After two weeks, he'd had enough and he snagged one of the letters and opened it in his room, blood pounding through his ears.

Oh.

This was… this was very not good. No wonder his dad was pissed.

Inside the envelope, addressed to a Mr. Harry James Potter, was a congratulatory letter announcing he'd been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and would have to confirm his place, a list of supplies, and two other letters of a more personal nature, one written in a narrow loopy writing and one written in thick black ink.

_Harry,_

_My name is Albus Dumbledore and I am so sorry._

That letter went on to explain that his father was actually his uncle, who had kidnapped him.

The second letter began with

_Harry,_

_We're the Johnsons and we've volunteered to be your foster parents._

And since Samuel was, despite being incredibly clever, only eleven, he couldn't bear to read past that. He threw the papers away and began to cry.

It wasn't long before his father found him, fury written across his face. Samuel braced himself, still sobbing but expecting a harsh blow for breaking orders. "I-I'm s-sorry, Dad, please don't l-let them t-take me!" he sobbed. It didn't matter if his father punished him for disobeying or whining or anything else. He just needed to know more than anything in the world that he wouldn't be forced away from his father, the only other person consistently in his life.

But the blow never came. Moriarty was furious, yes, but he was also extremely pleased. "Of course they won't take you, Samuel. Daddy's protecting you." He gathered the letters, crumpled them in his hands, and left the room, the door slamming behind him.

-o—

Moriarty listened to the broken sobbing with a sort of pride. This was _his son_. His son who didn't want to and never would leave him. Later that night, Moriarty re-entered his son's room and hugged him with a gentleness he hadn't used in weeks, cooing to the boy that everything was going to be okay. "You're mine," he kept repeating. And Samuel fell asleep, grateful for his rescuer, knowing now that that odd story his father was so fond of was true, rather than fairy tale.

September first came, the letters stopped, and life went back to normal, Samuel practicing wandless wordless magic and studying all he could get his hands on while Moriarty slowly but surely built up his criminal network.

It was six months after the original letter that his father hired a discreet wandsmith and several tutors with questionable practices to help Samuel take his studies up a notch.

-o—

Samuel wasn't oblivious to the fact that his father had sex, but he'd never brought one of his conquests back to the flat before, and Samuel was more than a little disturbed when he woke up to moaning and moving and banging and a bit of screaming coming from his father's room. When the conquest in question appeared in the kitchen wearing nothing but boxers and jumped about two feet in the air, it became glaringly obvious that he wasn't expecting a pre-teen to be calmly eating cereal there.

"Who're you?" Samuel asked, eyes skimming over the bruises and bite marks.

"Boss?" the guy called questioningly over his shoulder.

Samuel rolled his eyes and hopped off his stool to rinse his bowl.

"Nothing to worry about, Sebby, just my kid."

Unfortunately, "Sebby" wasn't just a one-time thing. He kept coming back. With no sign of stopping. It was horrifying.

-o—

Samuel was laughing about something, his Potions instructor's hand on his shoulder as he fumbled with the key to the flat, then stepped inside. But that laughter ceased immediately when faced with the scene before them—James Moriarty with a gun pointed steadily at a huge black dog that was easily 200 pounds and snarling. It jumped towards Samuel and Moriarty shot, hitting it three times before it fell to the floor and shifted in what looked to be a rather painful process into a malnourished, unwashed, and scruffy young person.

Said person pressed a hand to a bullet wound and yelped in pain, laying his head back on the floor and moaning.

"How did you get in here?"

He shook his head frantically. "No, no, Harry, I need to get to Harry."

Moriarty fired another shot into the man's head and stepped over the body to grasp Samuel's arm reassuringly. "I need to have words with our warders," he narrowed his eyes, "and your instructors." The Potions tutor had apparated away at the first sign of danger. She'd tried to take Samuel with her, but he'd squirmed away at just the right moment.

Samuel shrugged. "That was Sirius Black. He's been on the news, but I didn't know he was an animagus. Why'd he show up here? D'you think he was looking for a job?"

"He's dead. Drop it." Moriarty shoved Samuel towards his room and pulled out his phone. Soon, screaming filtered through the flat and Samuel leaned back on his bed, feeling protected.

-o—

For his fourteenth birthday, Samuel got a hunting knife from Sebby "Don't call me that" Moran and a staff from his father. More powerful, but more difficult to control than his wand, the staff was exactly the challenge he'd wanted. And the knife did come in handy in the first op his father let him help in, since violent spells were a lot harder to do nonverbally than others.

Neither the knife nor the staff were any help at all though when one night in late fall, a tugging sensation ripped him out of his comfortable reading chair and dropped him on the floor in a room full of people.

Samuel dropped his book of advanced magical theory and rubbed his ass, cursing quietly while he took in the enchanted ceiling, the dripping floating candles, the ridiculous number of teenagers, and an old man holding a wooden cup who made him incredibly wary. The entirety of the hall's occupants stared for several more seconds, and then there was a deafening eruption of noise and chaos and he ducked and covered to avoid the worst of the crowding.

-o—

There were plenty of articles in the papers the next morning and Moriarty was more than furious. The castle doors banged loudly and threatening footsteps were easily heard striding across the hard stone floor of the entrance hall. The short man was wearing a tailored suit, all black, with a knee-length black coat flaring behind him. His hair was a mess and there was fire in his eyes. Two people who were clearly lawyers scrambled to keep up.

"I will not stAND FOR THIS!" the man bellowed in an Irish accent. He strode down the aisle between the tables, ignoring the students, and planted both hands firmly on the table in front of the headmaster. "_Where is my son?_" he hissed dangerously.

Oddly, no one dared approach the man. He wasn't visibly armed, but he was exuding a cloud of danger warnings and fear. Even Dumbledore leaned back, although the old man did say, "My dear boy, I don't know what you're-" before his voice was cut off along with his finger, a knife from the table having slammed down across the digit. Blood spurted and Dumbledore whimpered, clutching his hand to his chest and making to stand up.

Moriarty grabbed his beard. "_Where. Is. My. Son?"_

"Your nephew is—hah—on the second floor. Guest quarters."

Moriarty spun on his heel and walked out of the hall before skipping up the grand stairs.

Dumbledore used his wand to reattach his finger and quickly excused himself.

The grand majority of the rest of the witnesses to this event surged upward and towards the doors, where they were able to watch the man turn the corner off of the landing.

The two lawyers cornered the headmaster and the ministry representatives.

"Does this sort of thing often happen at Hogwarts?" one of the Beauxbatons girls asked quietly.

A student next to her shook their head mutely.

-o—

When Moriarty finally found Samuel, the boy was curled up in the fetal position in the center of the bed he'd been provided, shaking.

The teenager lashed out at the enemy, not realizing it was his father, and Moriarty simply flexed his jaw and wrapped his arms tightly around the boy till he calmed.

"D-dad?"

"I said I'd protect you. You don't make that easy, Samuel."

"I- I don't kn-know what h-happened."

"Something very illegal which will absolutely have consequences."

* * *

_Review? I'd certainly appreciate it!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


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